


a study on control

by sheswanderlust



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Eating Disorders, M/M, not very shippy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25650832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheswanderlust/pseuds/sheswanderlust
Summary: Control (noun): the power to influence or direct people's behaviour or the course of events.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Daniel Ricciardo
Comments: 9
Kudos: 30





	a study on control

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't know anyone, this is all fantasy, nothing happened.

_Breakfast: Greek yoghurt, 150 g; strawberries, 100 g; cereals, 40 g; honey, one tablespoon. Total: 325 kcal, 18.8 g proteins, 61.6 g carbs, 0.4 g fats._

The meal plan and training plan created for Charles by his team are fixed on the door of his fridge, full of details about his meals and the training he needs to fit in every day.

A couple of kart-shaped magnets keeping them in place, those sheets are one of the few human traces in his aseptic kitchen, apart from the sweet notes Daniel often leaves him, written in airy letters on some pastel pink post-it the Aussie found God knows where.

Charles sees his meal and training schedules every time he sets foot in the kitchen. Not that he needs to – he knows them by heart, included the string of _yoghurt strawberries cereals honey_ he is supposed to have every morning. Andrea often tells him that it’s ok to cheat from time to time – he can allow himself to eat some chocolate after a bad race, or to go for an ice cream with his brothers without having to worry about it. Yet, Charles follows his diet religiously. Almost.

He always ends up skipping something – the snacks, some carbs here and there; usually not the proteins, he’s not an idiot, he knows he needs them. He still remembers the nutrition lessons at the Academy, and the weird way Andrea always looked at him afterwards, asking how it went. But Charles knows he can bend the plan up to a certain point – everything is under control, right? So he avoids the healthy snacks he’s supposed to eat, and he often skips the carbs, sometimes he skips something else too, and sometimes the entire meal, loading fake macros into FitnessPal, a deeply satisfying feeling in his bones.

With his training plan, he does the opposite – fitting extra workouts into his schedule, a run on the treadmill or some other cardio, usually at 10 pm. He wonders if the neighbours can hear him and a rush of anxiety fills him at the idea of someone learning about his night routine, or searching into his trash and finding all the half-full yoghurt cups.

Last week, their race pace simply wasn’t there. He tried, he really tried – and he thinks he did a good job, but still a good job is not what it’s going to save them right now. What hurts him the most is seeing how other people’s expectations have dramatically changed – to the point that what would have been a _nightmare weekend_ last season, was _not too bad_ now. For him, it’s not like that. It has never been like that. And as much as Daniel keeps telling him that it’s not his fault, that it’s okay, that bad times come and pass for everyone, Charles doesn’t stop hating himself – for the way he cannot change the situation, for the hurt of seeing faster cars going by, for the rage in knowing he has everything to be up there, _and still_.

_Lunch: chicken, 150 g; spinach, 150 g; brown rice, 100 g. Total: 550 kcal, 46.5 g proteins, 82.7 g carbs, 3.8 g fats._

Charles goes grocery shopping once a week, as soon as he’s back from whatever part of the world he was racing in the day before. It’s a methodical exercise – he always goes to the same supermarket and always buys exactly what he needs for that week’s meal plan. Nothing more, for fear of binge eating it, and nothing less, even if he knows he will be restricting and won’t eat everything his nutritionist expects him to. He always buys the same stuff, but still takes his time reading the labels, and then carefully organises his groceries on the checkout conveyor belt. Everything feels pristine and under-control.

Mattia is worried. Charles can see it in his eyes in the split second before the man realises he’s being watched, smiles at him and ruffles his hair. Charles doesn’t blame him – he knows the work to do is massive and he knows it will take time. The Scuderia has been through worse – they’ll get through this too. Mattia’s restlessness and frustration are his own, though; he cannot pinpoint when the man’s fatherly attitude has stopped annoying him and started calming him, yet it has happened, and seeing him frantically trying to keep everything at bay and to steer the team in the right direction is another source of anxiety. Yes, the Scuderia has been through worse – yet he hasn’t, not racing-wise. And he would need to be reassured so much – but everyone is busy trying to work on the car, worrying about the chassis and the drag and whatever the issue of the week is. So he sits in his corner of the garage, playing with his water bottle, expression blank just in case cameras are around. He watches as his nest threatens to crumble down –

he never felt so powerless.

_Dinner: 150 g salad, 90 g tomatoes, one egg, 80 g tuna, one rice cake, one teaspoon of oil as dressing. Total: 461 kcal, 36.7 g proteins, 20 g carbs, 25.5 g fats._

Once he has bought groceries, he meal preps at home, rigorously alone. He is not a very good cook, not at all, but he manages to prepare the easy, recurrent meals in his plan. It’s a cathartic experience – setting the ingredients, organising the work so he can cook multiple meals at the same time, the rice pot on the stove as he takes care of the chicken breasts, and then the containers laid out on the table. Green lid for vegetables, blue lid for carbs, red lid for proteins. He religiously weighs everything even if he knows he’ll consume around half of it and then will throw out the rest – he doesn’t need all those calories, doesn’t need egg and tuna and rice cakes for dinner, he can do without them, he knows he can. He puts a precise portion inside every container, then closes it and unnecessarily writes the meal and day of the week on a label on the lid. It’s satisfying, the control he has on this – the silence in his apartment, the containers stacked inside the fridge, the way the outcome only depends on him.

The meticulous order makes him feel as if being ready, being _damn good_ , is the sole thing that is going to influence his performance. Not luck, not the car, nothing else. In that moment, there’s just him and his sheer willpower. And the idea that if he pushes a bit more, maybe things will go right. That by being _even better_ , he can make _them_ better.

He often thinks about calling Lorenzo, scrolls down through his Whatsapp chats to the one between them, and almost starts typing. It usually happens at night, in his hotel room, another glittery skyline outside the window. He almost does it, then he doesn’t – because Lorenzo is busy with Arthur, and Charles doesn’t want to be another nuisance, doesn’t want to whine, to feel as if he needs to be taken care of. He just has to push, and he’ll be fine.

Then, when he’s back in Monaco, Lorenzo comes, chatting and being his usual, over-protective older brother, and Charles wants nothing more than to _feel_ this protection, to let control slip for a while, or maybe for good. Then Lorenzo looks at him with the concerned stare Charles knows too well, and asks all the right questions, the ones Charles has waited for weeks, the ones he wants to answer, the ones he _cannot_ answer. So he says that he’s fine, because he is, right? After a while, Lorenzo lets the matter drop, and Charles doesn’t know if he’s grateful or resentful for it.

He just has to push and he’ll be fine, they’ll be fine.


End file.
